


Gifts

by likingandloving



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 02:05:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6404155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likingandloving/pseuds/likingandloving
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little in-depth look to Matt and Karen's first kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gifts

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Karedevil fic, so I hope you guys like it!

—

He’s always viewed his extra senses as more of a curse than a gift. 

Even when Stick was training him, always spounting on about how gifts like these were deserved, or some other cookie fortune bullshit, it never registered in his mind. Instead, he viewed it as a burden. An obligation to use whatever was given to him by God to help save the people of Hell’s Kitchen.

An obligation that was too heavy to weigh on his shoulders. 

He remembers as a child, especially on nights after his father had died and the loneliness pulsed around him, all the faint sounds and movements and smells he could pick up in the cool night air. The ability to hear a crying woman whose heart had just been shattered three stories below his apartment. The way he could smell the faint odor of alcohol staining the breath of a man who had just lost his child in the bar down the street. The way he could feel the thump of a fist against a cracking wall out of frustration from a heartbroken man. 

He hated that he could just focus on the wrong thing at the wrong time and he’d know a little too much about some stranger’s life. He’s learned to tune it out, to only focus on what’s important, but until now he catches himself off guard and drift’s into someone else’s life. 

But now,  _now_ , he considers his extra senses a gift.

He can feel the cool rain patter softly against his jacket; a contrast to the gentle warmth that radiates from Karen’s palm. A few raindrops slide in the spaces that are unoccupied between their fingers, mixing themselves with the slight sweat he knows is on his palms. The sound of the raindrops thumping against the pavement are soothing as they linger in silence as they walk towards his apartment. 

He doesn’t know what spurred it on. Why Karen had so carefully slid her fingers into his, carefully caressing his fingers and with a breathy declaration that she was walking him home. She pulled him along, into the rain, and sighed happily. 

They had continued to walk in silence, Karen dutifully keeping a tight grasp on his hand. He tunes out the sound of the rain and instead, focuses on her. 

He smells the familiar mix of her perfume and the laundry detergent that stains her clothes, one that’s always been the first thing that hits him before he even opens the office doors. There’s a faint trace of smoke and alcohol from Josie’s mixing in the air, but it’s overpowered by the pure sweetness that shines through. He feels the grooves of her palms and its many lines pressed against his. He listens to the strong beat of her heart and thrum of her blood as it runs in her veins, in tune with the clicking of her feet against the pavement. He paints himself a picture of her because he can’t really look at her, but he can just see her and all that she is. 

It isn’t long before the concrete under his feet start to show familiar cracks and he knows that they will be at his apartment soon. He can smell the wafting Indian food cooking on the second floor and hear the slam of Mr. Radison’s old fridge on the third. On most days, the familiarity of it all would have brought relief; the notion of going up to his apartment and popping a cold beer the overall dream of the day. 

However, tonight, on this night, he just wishes that his block were a little longer. 

So that he could spend more time trying to memorize the crease of Karen’s hand. 

They stop, both letting out a chuckle at the sudden weight in the air. How obvious has it been? This ridiculous pressure that surrounds them. He knows that there was an inkling of it since the day they first met, but never this. 

Never this palpable tension he could feel pressing on his shoulders. 

He hears something suddenly and turns his head up, catching the lone raindrop that falls from the sky. Matt follows its trail and it seems to be drawn to Karen, the same way he was, and listen to its sighs as it carves a path down her skin. Curiosity comes over him and he reaches out to catch it, but instead is thrown off. 

Thrown off by the multitude of grooves that he can feel underneath his fingers and the knowledge that he had a chance to memorize the way she felt under his touch. That he could spend minutes, hours,  _days_ , just running his fingers over her and getting to know every push and pull of her skin. 

It leaves him breathless. 

And her too apparently, when her once steady breaths slowly dissolve into shaky tremors at his touch. 

Her lips call out to him. The vibrations of her breath, blown out through parted lips, swirl and dance in a sign that begs him to kiss her. Just kiss her, and feel the brush of the air she breathes against him. 

His hand comes up to rest against her cheek, to further enhance the vision of the masterpiece that was her already etched into his mind. He slowly thumbs her cheek, trying to capture the edge of her bone and the smoothness of her skin to add to his painting of her. 

But her lips, God her  _lips_ , were just singing a euphony he had to be a part of. 

He’s eerily drawn, like a moth to a flame. Matt just pulls her close, just wanting to feel something good for once. Something other than some stranger’s fist pounding into his ribs or a sharp shoe imprinting against his stomach. 

And when he feels the slight tremble of her lips under his, every punch, every kick, every drop of blood that has ever been smeared on his teeth, cumulates into relief. 

He would get punched, get kicked, get shot at a million times, if it would all lead to this. 

When she parts her lips under his and he tastes her for the first time, like shitty beer and stale peanuts and a sweetness that just encapsulates her, he’s never been more thankful that he was blind. 

That he could see her the way that no one else would. 

This was a gift. 

She was a gift. 

She was  _his_ gift. 

One that he’d fight like hell and back to keep. 

—


End file.
